


Get'cha Head in the Game

by remyllian_fire



Series: Wild Bakery Appears [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bakery Kink, Crack, Fluff, Kitchen Kink, M/M, gratuitous High School Musical references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 05:48:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1733360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remyllian_fire/pseuds/remyllian_fire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heartfelt conversations and steamy moments both go perfectly with cookies, aprons, and references to High School Musical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Get'cha head in the game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CrayolaDinosaurs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrayolaDinosaurs/gifts).



> ...this was also Angela's fault. At least 25% her fault. Okay, it's almost entirely my fault. This complete and utter crack. Fluff and porn, yes, but crack.

Derek kissing him is something he never expected to happen. Not that Stiles minds, of course. He’d set his heart on baked goods, but the unexpected kisses make for a pleasant surprise. Admittedly, they’re very wanted (in fact, he admits it to Scott several times, though Scott isn’t exactly impressed). The entire making out with Derek Hale business is entirely lovely, really. The only thing that comes remotely close to being so wonderful would be those sinfully delicious cookies.

Later, Derek pretends that moment never happened. He doesn’t touch Stiles, who can take a hint. Occasionally. More importantly, he gets the message this time. Until the message is distorted nearly two weeks later when Derek crowds him against Stiles’ fridge and smothering him with kisses, that is. Stiles doesn’t mention the mixed messages. Instead, he enjoys the moment while he can. After all, there’s no sense in wasting a good thing.

But it happens again, and again. The fourth time Derek corners Stiles in his kitchen, he can’t help it. He has to know.

"Do you have a thing for my kitchen?"

Eyebrow quirked, head tilted in confusion, Derek says nothing but inches forward despite Stiles’ interruption. Stiles sighs and pushes Derek away with a hand on his chest, leaning back against the fridge.

"You don’t think it’s weird?" Derek still looks perplexed, so Stiles continues. "You only ever touch me in this kitchen. Do you just like this room? Are you itching for my dad to see us?"

Derek shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Obviously awkward and uncomfortable.

"Oh, God, don’t tell me it’s something weirder than that. Give me a break; I don’t think I can deal with really weird fantasies this early in the game. If there is a game, that is. If there isn’t a game, if all there’s going to be is a series of unrelated moments, then I guess I would like to know. Not that it has to matter. I just want to know, okay? I like to plan ahead—"

Derek shuts him up with a palm over his mouth.

"Of course there’s a game. It- you- the game just smells better here, all right?"

Stiles stares hard at him. He doesn’t even move an inch when Derek’s hand drops. Silence rushes over them, hanging heavy in the air. The only sound in the room is of leather rustling as Derek fidgets.

"You just want to make out with a giant fucking cookie, don’t you?" Stiles can’t keep back the strangled chuckle that forces its way out into the open.

"Do you even hear the things you say anymore?" Derek asks, incredulous. He moves into Stiles’ space again, this time without any protest from Stiles. "You’re an idiot."

"Oh, thanks, I’m glad we’re back at that—"

Derek presses close until there’s no space left between them. He covers Stiles’ mouth again with his hand. Stiles resists – this cannot become a habit. But when he tries to pry the fingers off his lips, he can’t budge them. He does the next best thing he can think of — well, the third best thing; his initial second choice is to fold his arms over his chest, but Derek is, of course, in the way — and rests his hands on his hips. Stiles can’t push him away, but at least he can look like a defiant protagonist in a romantic comedy.

"No, really, you’re an idiot. Stiles, you’re — this metaphor is fucking stupid, but fine — but you’re the game. This isn’t about your kitchen or baked goods or anything else."

Stiles gapes at him. They gape at each other in equal measure, really. But then there’s no space between their lips and it doesn’t matter who started it, because they’re kissing again and that’s as lovely as ever. The only thing that matters is that it’s both of them, moving together until it’s too much to take. Derek pulls away, his face bright red.

"Will you push me away if I say that the game is also, just a little, about how much I want you naked except for an apron?"

Stiles laughs breathily. He rests his forehead against Derek’s and trails a finger lazily down his jaw, relishing in the feel of stubble against smooth skin.

"I think I have an apron under the sink specifically for occasions just like this."


	2. I want fabulous (that is my simple request)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't _entirely_ explicit sex, but it's close. If there was a middle ground between 'M' and 'E', this would probably hang out there.

Stiles specifically buys it with Derek in mind, but nobody has to know that. In truth, nobody should ever know about his midnight online apron shopping experience at all. Ever. Especially not Derek. But even though reason returns to him, when it comes in the mail he can’t let it go to waste after he spent his own money on it.

"Waste not, want not," he mutters to himself to at least somewhat justify wearing it while he makes dinner alone one night.  

"I thought we agreed there wouldn’t be anything under the apron," Derek says from the doorway, and his sudden presence startles Stiles into dropping utensils. Spoons clang to the ground and he hopes the sound disguises the beating of his suddenly racing heart.

"What the hell, where did you come from?"

Derek doesn’t respond — he’s too busy staring intently. Stiles glances down at himself, wondering what Derek actually thinks about what he’s wearing. His jeans and shirt, even under the silly apron, suddenly seem more obtrusive than they did seconds earlier. The apron itself is… well, it’s embarrassing enough that he should never have bought it. Derek should never know that he has a neon yellow apron with “[taste my meat, bitch](http://www.cafepress.com/+taste_my_meat_bbq_apron,65237909)" printed on it in large, block lettering. Still, he looks enthralled.

"This? Vaguely inappropriate demands on aprons get you going?" He tugs at the sides of the fabric for emphasis.

"That one does," Derek insists, his expression stoic as ever.

"Don’t be a dick," Stiles grumbles, embarrassed. He knows he must look ridiculous. "It’s a joke, and not even a joke meant for you. A private, inside joke, and you shouldn’t make fun."

He turns away from Derek and grabs the ends knotted together at his neck. When he starts to pull it over his head, Derek is against his back in an instant, a hand over Stiles’ to stop him.

"I’m not ridiculing you. I mean it."

The words are a harsh whisper and a soft breath on his ear. So maybe Derek is serious about the apron thing. If the hand sliding slowly along the edge of the material says anything, he must be.

"Can you—" his voice catches on his raw nerves, and he clears his throat before trying again. "Would you wait? I can’t stop in the middle of cooking dinner. Not even to make out with you."

"You hadn’t got past the dancing to terrible pop music phase of meal planning. Food can wait." Derek lightly kisses the back of Stiles’ neck. He shivers and steps away, away from Derek’s mouth. It takes significant effort to turn and look straight at him.

"It’s not terrible music. It’s classic." It’s much easier to be defensive than acknowledge his real worries.

"It’s shit. What was it they kept saying? ‘Get your head in the game’? What kind of game do you need head in? Porn?"

Stiles laughs, but ducks his head and folds his arms over his chest. All over, his skin flushes pink, but he stubbornly hopes that Derek doesn’t notice. Or at least ignores it.

"So what is it?" Derek asks, removing the short distance between them again, but doesn’t touch. "Do you really want your meat tasted?"

"What? No, like I said; it’s a joke. I didn’t know you’d even be here tonight, I—"

"Stop." Derek holds him still with a loose grip around his forearm. "You’re trembling. Why?"

"You’re freaking me out!" His flailing is restricted by Derek’s grasp, maybe even calmed a little by the calloused thumb brushing lightly against his skin. "I’m wearing this stupid apron and you’re being weird and… you."

"You’re nervous." It’s not a question, but his brow wrinkles nonetheless, obviously confused.

"Yeah, I am, okay?" Stiles admits. He tugs a hand away and combs it roughly through his hair in frustration. "This damn apron doesn’t set the mood, it’s embarrassing, and I didn’t want you to see it."

Derek’s face softens, but the sincerity only makes Stiles blush even harder. He glances away, only looking up when he feels arms encircle his waist.  
“I think it’s fabulous,” Derek says with a smile. “It’s on you, and that is my only request. That’s all that matters. I just want to be with you. Only you.”

Briefly, Stiles snorts a relieved laugh, but most of the sound is muffled by Derek’s mouth. The momentary anxiety caused by the combined presence of his apron and Derek melts away with the familiar sensation. Lips move against each other, making way for tongues, and hands slide across fabric, warm and comforting. It’s what they do, and it works for them.

Then, while still warm and lovely, the atmosphere shifts into something less familiar. Stiles likes the change, anyway. Fingers linger, pull tighter at clothes until Derek draws away to tug his jacket off. Stiles interrupts him with a kiss before his shirt can follow suit. Stiles… well, his clothing proves more difficult. Derek won’t let allow the apron to come off even for a moment. He voluntarily helps, though, and slips his hands behind the apron to twist the buttons. He isn’t very good at it.

"Goddamn buttons," Derek grumbles as he struggles.

"Buttons are good. They’re sexy," Stiles counters. "It’s the apron that’s in the way. If you’d just let me-"

"It stays on, Stiles."

And with that, he finally unfastens the last one, and he shoves the material over Stiles’ shoulders. The shirt underneath is removed much more easily. Heat spreads from palms to ribs and circles around waists. Exploration is easy, wonderful even, on both ends. But when a hand dips beneath the denim of Stiles’ jeans, he freezes.

"If you don’t want to, we don’t have to—" Derek begins to offer a way out, but disappointment is evident in his voice. Stiles feels it, too, and stopping just isn’t an option for either of them. Not this time.

"No, I do," Stiles insists. "I definitely do. I just need to— calm down, focus. I gotta get my head in the game."

Derek stills for a moment. He rolls his eyes, but relaxes against Stiles, and their cheeks brush lightly against each other.

"I don’t know why I like you."

"You said it yourself — I’m brilliant. Fabulous, even, and you want fabulous, don’t you?"

"You can bet on it."

"Now that’s the spirit." Stiles pulls Derek’s face close with a hand on his neck. "I knew you were paying attention when we watched those movies."

"Shut up, Stiles."

He considers the merits of resisting, but Derek’s lips are there, tempting, and kissing them is more appealing than arguing. Every touch is both soothing and tantalizing, making his skin tingle everywhere. Lips brush over collar bones, teeth scrape harshly against soft skin, and the quiet sound of skin on wet skin floods his ears. He’s only vaguely aware of Derek moving them around the room, until he feels the hard edge of the table behind him. Derek’s weight against him is perfect, or it would be if only—

"Damn it," Stiles breathes out heavily. "This damn thing is in the way. I want to feel—"

"Later," Derek murmurs against his lips. "Please?"

Derek’s eyes widen significantly, and it’s partially the insecurity found in the expression and partially the irresistible puppy eyes that make Stiles give in.

"You are so weird," Stiles mutters, but he nods briefly.

It doesn’t really bother him. He briefly takes Derek’s hands in his own, guides them to the damnable fabric in between them, but he releases him quickly, lets Derek control this weird fantasy to his liking.. Derek twists fingers around the knotted ribbon of fabric behind Stiles’ back, and slides the other hand up his thigh, twists the other around the knotted ribbon of fabric behind Stiles back. It takes several seconds and the popping open of his jeans before he comprehends what’s happening. It then takes no more than Derek kneeling to understand what’s next, and he might whimper in anticipation.

"Fuck, are you serious? Fuck, you’re—"

And then Derek’s lips wrap around him, silencing him but for a gasp. Derek moves over him, every move tortuously slow. He aches with the slowness of it, but whenever he presses closer, Derek stills him with a hand to his hips. Each stroke of Derek’s tongue is languorous, the rhythm of his mouth nearly lethargic, and it drives Stiles _crazy_. It goes on for ages, and Stiles runs his hands over broad shoulders, tries to distract himself to avoid rushing through this like he’s a teenager with no sense of self-restraint, but it’s hard when he really is a teenager with so sense of self-restraint. But that leads to thoughts of  _restraints_  and Stiles clenches fists tightly at the thought of Derek binding him and restricting him, but that’s for another time when he isn’t dangerously close to losing his mind.

"Derek, I’m —  shit—" Stiles pushes at his shoulders, but he doesn’t respond. "Seriously, can’t stop—"

Derek merely hums in response, sucks harder. Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, but the pain isn’t distracting enough. He wraps a hand tight around the back of Derek’s neck for support. He can’t contain himself any longer, and tips gracelessly over the edge, but Derek takes it all with remarkable persistence. Stiles wants to open his eyes, wants to see if Derek is wrecked or composed, solemn or giddy, but he’s almost glad he can’t gather the energy to look at him; the sight would probably destroy him.

He listens to the sloppy sound of Derek pulling away, and rests back against the table when left without a sturdy body for support. His forearms barely hold enough strength to keep him upright, and they probably can’t support both of them when Derek leans against him, mouthing a wet trail from collar bone to the line of his jaw. Finally alert enough to respond, Stiles chases his mouth, meeting him with a lazy kiss. Derek shifts, and the angle is better, but his weight falls more heavily on Stiles, who slips under the weight. He crashes against the table and pulls Derek with him.

"You’re heavy," Stiles grouses, but slips his arms around Derek’s back, keeping him close despite the complaint. "And, uh, you're still- sorry."

"Yeah, well…" A quiet chuckle rumbles against Stiles’ neck.

"Want me to-"

"Well, if you're so inclined-"

"How about not." Well, that’s from a voice he wasn’t expecting to hear.

Derek starts to pull away, to create distance between them. Stiles however, holds tightly to his wrist, tugging him back down, using Derek’s body as a shield from his father. His father, who is in the doorway, determinedly turned away from them.

"Fuck. Fuck, what time is it?" Stiles asks, certain that it should matter. They should have more time. There should definitely be more time before his father is due back home. This isn't happening.

"It doesn’t matter, because your ability to  _not have sex on my kitchen table_  should not be contingent on my work schedule.”

Stiles flushes deeply, and Derek must feel similarly embarrassed, if the sudden warmth of his skin means anything. He risks a glance, and Derek looks bewildered, and rightfully so. It’s incredible that he didn’t hear anything with his heightened senses, that he was so invested in Stiles that he stopped listening to the world around them. Stiles would feel flattered if he wasn’t so terrified. They exchange frightened glances, and a frustrated scoff comes from the doorway.

"Get out of here," his father demands, still facing the opposite direction. "Both of you. And you have two days to buy a new table for me."

Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice. He roughly pulls his clothes back on into some semblance of clothed, though he doesn’t dare go near Derek to help him do the same. They don’t speak another word before rushing out of the kitchen, and Stiles leads the way to his room. Derek hesitates, but Stiles shoves him inside and lock the door behind them.

"But your father—"

"My father, who now knows," Stiles interrupts. "And is too scarred to come up here and talk to me."

Stiles kisses him against the door, but Derek pushes him away with a hand on his shoulder.

"Not with your father down the hall. Not after that scene."

"Fine," Stiles sighs, resigned. He leans against Derek until his heart stops hammering. Even then, he doesn’t move, instead enjoying the calming effect of Derek’s hands running up and down his arms.

"It’s been an interesting night," Stiles muses, still clinging to Derek. "You with — well, with your mouth. That was— yeah. And then my dad—"

"We’re going to forget that part ever happened," Derek grumbles.

 ”No,” Stiles says, insistent. “Not possible. We're not going to forget this, whether we want it to be or not.”

Derek groans.

"What a great start."

"Yeah," he mumbles, but he buries a smile in Derek’s shoulder, because it’s a  _start_. “So, can I take the apron off now?”


End file.
